


Above All Others

by potentiality_26



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: Curses, First Kiss, Illnesses, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 08:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14232984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentiality_26/pseuds/potentiality_26
Summary: Segundus held him hard and looked at his face with wide eyes.  Childermass tolerated this examination, only flinching back when Segundus’ other hand came up toward his face.“There is a black cloud about you,” Segundus said.  His fingers did not actually reach Childermass; rather, they grasped at the air around him as if the black cloud he spoke of was not a cloud at all, but rather a curtain he could draw aside if he could but seize upon it.  “It responds to me, but I cannot make it leave.”Magic has always been a constant for Childermass- not least because he is cursed.  But when Segundus falls ill, everything might change.





	Above All Others

**Author's Note:**

> I actually started this before [To Make Dreams Truths, and Fables Histories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13506582) but could not get it to obey me before now. Anyone having read both may notice that I have certain... preoccupations. Hopefully others enjoy these things as much as I do.

It was not- Childermass sometimes reflected- as Jonathan Strange had made it seem that day he first called him _magician_.  It was not as though that was something he had long known himself to be, a word written on his bones and lodged beneath his fingernails that he was forbidden to speak aloud because Norrell had to be the only one. 

No, it was not like that at all.  Magic had been there, of course, written on his bones and lodged beneath his fingernails, for as long as he could remember.  Some of it liked him, and it was in his cards that always told him true, and in his hands, which no man had ever felt dipping into his pockets except Norrell, who he had desperately needed to feel it.  The magic that did not like him, on the other hand, was a patina across his skin- and when it cracked bad things happened.

But the idea that he could control it- not that magic, perhaps, not the magic that was like a living, breathing thing which had attached itself to him- but _some_ magic was a recent discovery, too tentative to put a name to.  Too new for even he to have developed resentments on the subject.

No, it had never occurred to him to call himself a magician.  Not as a boy, luckier than he ought to be in some respects and unluckier than he ought to be in others.  Not as a young man, newly in Mr. Norrell’s service and watching him cast a spell for the first time.  Not even now, with Norrell gone, and Strange gone, and magic sufficiently different that he of all people was counted as much an expert as anyone.    

He was hardly a magician in his own mind even so.  He was a man afflicted by magic.  That was what Norrell had said, at any rate, and Childermass had continued to think of himself as such- less because he thought it was for Norrell to name his affliction than because he found it apt. 

When they first encountered each other, Norrell had been leaving a booksellers’.  Back then, Norrell had had to negotiate for his books himself, and he was most miserly about it- but his wallet had nevertheless been empty.  Norrell had wheeled around and for a moment they merely glared at each other- Norrell angry that someone had made bold to steal what little he had, Childermass angry that he had been caught out by a scholar of all people- and then something extraordinary happened.  Norrell’s eyes widened and he said quite clearly, “You have been cursed.”

Childermass had.  He was familiar, in the particular way of a young person who had forgotten how to be a child at a young age indeed, with the fairy stories of old.  He knew he had been cursed- but it was not until Norrell that he had began to wonder if anything whatsoever could be done about it.

Childermass did not remember being cursed.  He did not know what, if anything, he had done to deserve it- and yet he had always known its terms.  The curse was a simple fact of his existence; he could no more explain his understanding of it than he could explain how he knew how to breathe.  This had much confounded Mr. Norrell, who had not encountered a curse outside of his books before, and must have asked to hear the particulars a thousand times.

They were these: when he loved someone, their touch should be painful to him unless he was first in their heart.  And, indeed, no one Childermass cared for was able to touch his bare skin without this pain.  Not even his mother. 

It was just as well, because Childermass cared for almost no one.  He taught himself what little he still needed to know to handle Norrell’s affairs for him, and in return for his service Norrell- in the course of his studies- had an eye for any way to break his curse.  Childermass was of the opinion, now, that it could not be broken.  With Strange and Norrell had gone, and Hurtfew and its contents gone, there was much to do.  He had what he remembered of Norrell’s books to take down, Vinculus to manage, and the gentleman magicians of York looking to him- a servant- for the way forward.  Even Segundus, who did not like him, considered him perhaps the most magical man left in England. 

So- a magician afflicted by magic, then.  It did not matter so much, the curse.  He had too much else to do, to fuss and bother about whether or not he was loved. 

*   *   *

Even when he was in London, Childermass’ magic had very... natural affinities.  It was a magic of fog and brambles, of moors and bogs.  One of the things which came easily to him, therefore, was putting an end to things in autumn.  This was fortunate, because it was then that Mr. Honeyfoot wrote asking for his assistance.  According to his letter, Mr. Segundus had fallen ill while negotiating the border of his gardens and the fairylands beyond, and whatever had gone amiss with him was now going amiss with all of Starecross Hall.

Childermass was, at the moment he received this letter, staying in rooms in the city of York.  It was a gloomy day, the kind apt to make Childermass sick for the place that had been his home for so many years and was now gone.  It was the kind apt to make Childermass melancholy, and he did not like to be melancholy- he considered it a waste of time and energy. 

Accordingly, he sat down at his desk and dashed out a quick reply which would proceed him to Starecross Hall.  That he was in York, that he was most willing to assist Mr. Segundus in whatever way he could, that he would be at Starecross presently- and so indeed he was.

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Childermass,” were Mr. Honeyfoot’s first words upon his arrival.  Honeyfoot was an amiable fellow to whom grudges did not come easily, but even so Childermass was often surprised to hear such words from his lips. 

“I am very glad to be of assistance, Mr. Honeyfoot,” Childermass replied, and while a local man saw to his horse Childermass walked into Starecross Hall.

It was immediately clear to Childermass why Mr. Honeyfoot should glad to see anyone- anyone at all- who he had reason to believe might set things right again.  Starecross was much altered.  The furniture in it was levitating some distance above the floor.  The windows and shutters were all flung wide, leaving it as cold inside as out, if not colder.  Before he could suggest closing them- for the sake of the sick man, if nothing else- Mr. Honeyfoot paused at his shoulder and said grimly: “We attempt to close them regularly, but it does no good.  And often it is impossible.”

Childermass followed Mr. Honeyfoot’s gaze and discovered that in many places the ivy which grew along the outer walls of the hall had crawled in through the windows and begun to grow along the inner walls as well.  “What else troubles you here?”

“The books we pore over in search of a remedy snap closed in our hands,” Mr. Honeyfoot reported.  “And the doors slam shut in our visitor’s faces.”

“But not mine,” Childermass pointed out.

Mr. Honeyfoot nodded fiercely, as if to say that the lion’s share of his hope that Childermass would be of assistance to him and Mr. Segundus now rested on that fact.  “I must tell you, Mr. Childermass, that most of our learned friends could do nothing to help- and some of our staff have run away, certain that they will be cursed themselves.”

Childermass could not help the look of faint amusement which crossed his face.  “I will do what I can,” he said.  “And not leave this place until it is resolved.  You have my word on it.”   

“You are a man of your word, Mr. Childermass,” said Mr. Honeyfoot in a tone that contained no doubt whatsoever.

Childermass nearly smiled again.  “Tell me- have there been other mishaps?”

Honeyfoot considered that for a time, then- “Vinculus was here.”

Having spent as much time in the company of that person as any man living, Childermass understood Mr. Honeyfoot’s look of befuddlement.  “A mishap indeed- but can it be related?”

“It must be in some way.  He appeared at dawn on the very day Mr. Segundus fell ill.  He was all eerie laughter, and to me he said-”

“What?”

“He said, ‘Tell Childermass that it is at hand.  The spell will be broken soon.’”

“A promising prediction,” Childermass said.  He did not tease Mr. Honeyfoot for not calling on him earlier.  There was still too little affection between himself and the residents of Starecross for them not to have tried elsewhere before they sent for him, whatever Vinculus had prophesied.  “Take me to see Mr. Segundus, sir.”

Mr.  Honeyfoot obliged. 

In the handful of times Childermass had visited Starecross Hall, on the even rarer occasion that he stayed long inside, he had never seen Mr. Segundus’ rooms.  He did not know the way, and yet he thought that he should have found them without Mr. Honeyfoot’s help.  There was a kind of fresh sweetness about Segundus’ magic, like dew on spring flowers, like a fresh coat or a cleansing rain.  Like a new beginning.  Childermass could feel traces of it every step of the way, and it was not corrupted by whatever afflicted Mr. Segundus now- although Childermass could feel that too, muffling the house like a wet blanket.  A wet blanket was not an especially sinister thing, and that muffled sense of it gave Childermass hope; if Mr. Segundus had gotten on the wrong side of some fairy magic, it was mild enough.  Inconvenient and unpleasant perhaps- not evil.  Not- Childermass suppressed a quiet shudder- deadly.  Segundus was too fine a man to meet such a fate.  Fine men did not, of course, deserve to fall pray to malevolent magic less than men who were not so fine- Childermass counted himself among that number without shame- but Childermass did think Segundus’ eyes were kind when they were not flashing with protective fury, and beautiful even when they were, and he did think nothing like this should be allowed to snatch him from the world.

So it was that- as Mr. Honeyfoot knocked on the door, received no reply, and with a put-upon expression opened it anyway- Childermass was both optimistic and determined.

When Mr. Honeyfoot stood aside, however, and Childermass took a step into Mr. Segundus’ rooms, his optimism took a blow- though his determination only steeled further.  Segundus did not look at all well.  Childermass had not expected him to, of course- but the reality of it, the pale clamminess of his skin and the flush of fever on his cheeks, the dampness of his hair and the weak rhythm of his breathing- all were troubling indeed.

“I am glad you sent for me,” Childermass said.  He did not waste time exploring Segundus’ rooms.  He merely found a chair that would serve his purpose and drew it up to the foot of the bed.  He carried with him a bag with the objects he most commonly used in magic inside and he set it down by the chair, and then set himself in the chair.

“May I be of any further assistance to you, sir?” Mr. Honeyfoot asked.

“No.”  When Mr. Honeyfoot looked distressed, Childermass softened his voice and aspect as much as he could: “This is work best done alone.  I will call you, if I have need of you.”

“Very good, Mr. Childermass,” Mr. Honeyfoot said.  He departed.

Segundus was sleeping, which was good- and also tormented by strange and unpleasant dreams, which was not so good.  Everything Childermass did to see into the truth of Segundus’ current state failed at first.  Every time he got close he would be prevented, forced to contend with the shades of Jonathan Strange, of Mr. Norrell, of Vinculus and Honeyfoot, of Stephen Black and Lady Pole and, most bizarrely, of himself.  

The shades were- Childermass believed- the result of a fever only, but coming from the mind of one magician and settling in another gave them a life of their own.  Childermass tried not to look at any of them, but the shade of himself was particularly difficult to ignore.  He did not seem quite… right.  His face had a softness to it that Childermass doubted he possessed; he said kind words in response to Childermass knew not what, and then suddenly his eyes grew dark and his expression implacable, and even in sleep Mr. Segundus winced and his countenance trembled.

Childermass banished the shades as best he could and returned his attention to Segundus himself.  He performed every spell he knew to detect curses and foreign magic.  Since these were the first spells he had ever seen Mr. Norrell at work on, they had for Childermass an old and almost comfortable familiarity. 

Unfortunately, they also did not help.  When Childermass had examined the miasmic clouds which surrounded Segundus until his eyes swam, he rose from the chair and returned to the main hall.    

There, Mr. Honeyfoot was sipping tea with a pensive expression.  He rose immediately when he saw Childermass.  “Have you helped him, sir? _Can_ you help?”

“I believe, sir,” Childermass said slowly, “That it is not in the power of magic as it currently stands to cure him.”

An expression of utmost devastation appeared on Mr. Honeyfoot’s face.  “Then what shall become of him?”  The furniture in the hall rose even higher into the air.  “Of us all?”

“It is my hope that he will be well again,” Childermass said.  “I believe he is sick in the most mundane since only, and that whatever magic he was about beforehand is in fact uninvolved.  You are plagued otherwise, I believe, only because he is a magician who cannot at the moment control his magic.”

Honeyfoot’s eyes flicked around the room.  “I did not think that Mr. Segundus was able to do such things.”  

“When he is well, sir, he cannot.”

“But he will be well again?”

“I believe he will,” Childermass reassured him.  “I will go and sit with him and see what I may yet do.”

“You said magic could not help him.”

“I said it could not cure him.  Mr. Segundus must fight off this illness on his own.  But I can mitigate it.  I would watch over Norrell when he was sick and I believe I helped him- and that was before I knew spells of my own.  I will sit with him.”

Mr. Honeyfoot thus informed, Childermass went back upstairs. 

In the small period of time Childermass had been gone, Mr. Segundus appeared to have roused himself.   He sat up against his headboard, face still flushed with fever, eyes still glassy and strange.  Segundus regarded Childermass with an expression of utmost suspicion.  For a time, Childermass was not sure that Segundus even recognized him at all, but when he approached Segundus’ eyes widened and he said, “You, sir!”  He swallowed several times- perhaps his throat pained him- and added, “You shall not drive us out, sir.”

Childermass sighed and returned to his chair by the foot of the bed.  He rested his elbows on his knees and- for a time- merely looked at Segundus, who looked back, lifting his chin.

“You shall not so unsettle me.”  Segundus’ eyes widened fractionally, as if he was surprised by the words he himself had spoken.  The room was not well lit, but what light there was fell across Segundus’ smooth cheek.  He was blinking rapidly, making it difficult for Childermass not to notice that his eyelashes were unusually fine.  “Us, I meant to say.  You shall not so unsettle us.”

Childermass lifted a brow.  “Then why did you say ‘me’?”

“I do not know.”

There was something cagey in Segundus’ manner which made Childermass suspect that he did know.   Childermass was not an uncurious man, though he did sometimes try to cultivate the appearance of it.  He wanted to know why Segundus had said what he did, but Segundus was ill and Childermass had been called to help.  He would not toy with him further.  “ _I_ do,” he said.  “You are unwell.”

Segundus’ eyes flew wider.  “I am not, sir.”

“You are,” Childermass told him.  “You are feverish.”

“A fever?”  Segundus’ voice softened.  “Is that all it has been?”  His eyes traced over Childermass’ frame in starts and stops.  “A fever?”

Childermass wondered if Segundus had detected more in his ailment than that.  He truly believed that there was nothing magical in Segundus’ condition- but he was not beyond being wrong.  Even ill, Mr. Segundus was better than anyone Childermass knew at seeing into the truth of things.   “Would you say there was more?” he asked.

Segundus looked warier still.  “You shall not trap me in anything,” he said.  His eyes began to flicker again, this time around the room.  “You shall not trap me in this place.”

“Only a moment ago you said I should not drive you out.”

“That was before I remembered.”

“Remembered what?”

“That you made this into a madhouse.”

That surprised Childermass.  He scraped a hand over his face.  “It is not longer a house of the mad,” he said.  “Lady Pole is well now, thanks to you, and Vinculus- Vinculus is as much in his senses as such a man may be.”  He stood and made his way toward the bed.  “And you will make this into a school soon.”

“You opposed that.”

“I oppose it no longer.  You may do as you see fit; I will not prevent you.”   

“Then I may get up from this bed?” Segundus asked, beginning to do exactly that.

“I would not advise it.”

“Hah!”

“Because you are ill.”  Childermass came to a stop at Segundus’ bedside, and after a moment’s hesitation he sat on the edge.  “You have a fever and I am come to help.  When you are better I will go, and not trouble you.” 

“I am quite well enough,” Segundus said.  He attempted to demonstrate as much by standing fully upright- and abruptly tipping straight into Childermass’ arms. 

Childermass froze.  Given his particular circumstances, Childermass was not a man given to casual contact.  The presence, therefore, of Segundus suddenly in his arms was somewhat disconcerting to him.  Childermass had instinctively seized him by the upper arms, which through his nightclothes were still very warm- too warm, Childermass reminded himself, because Segundus had a fever.  “You are not,” Childermass said, his voice coming remarkably thick.  “You must go back to bed.”

“No,” Segundus said.  Then, “I must... that is to say I have... business.”

“Ah,” Childermass said.  It had taken him a moment, which was to his mind a moment too long for so obvious a thing, to realize that Segundus did not mean he had accounts to go over.  “You cannot stand on your own, sir,” Childermass said.  “You must let me help you.”

Segundus’ face was abruptly flushed with more than fever.

“Do not worry,” Childermass told him, as kindly as he was able.  “I have done far more unseemly favors for men I respected much less.”

Whether Segundus found this comforting or not Childermass didn’t know, but he did allow Childermass to help him. 

Once his needs had been seen to, Segundus was more biddable.  He allowed Childermass to put him back to bed without protest. 

Just as Childermass was about to draw away, Segundus seized him by the arm.  His fingers did not quite touch the skin at Childermass’ wrist, but it was such a near thing that Childermass could not breathe for a moment.  He told himself that it did not matter.  Childermass liked Segundus, almost in spite of himself- and certainly in spite of Segundus.  He respected Segundus, and he... noticed that he had very fine eyelashes.  But surely he did not love him.  And surely as long as that was true he was in no danger.

Segundus held him hard and looked at his face with wide eyes.  Childermass tolerated this examination, only flinching back when Segundus’ other hand came up toward his face. 

“There is a black cloud about you,” Segundus said.  His fingers did not actually reach Childermass; rather, they grasped at the air around him as if the black cloud he spoke of was not a cloud at all, but rather a curtain he could draw aside if he could but seize upon it.  “It responds to me, but I cannot make it leave.”

Childermass stared down at Segundus where he lay on his mass of pillows.  “How does it respond?” he asked.  Norrell had studied the curse for year upon year, but just as magicians had different affinities, they had different skills.  Norrell had been aware of the curse from the beginning, but he could not _see_ it as such- nor could he ever change how it behaved. 

Segundus did not answer.  He had fallen asleep.

Childermass sighed softly and let him be.  He decided to retire again to his chair, but after a moment’s consideration he moved it to the darkest corner of the room.  Almost no light hit that particular corner, and from it Childermass thought he could make himself invisible enough that he might help Segundus if he needed it and not otherwise distress him. 

With everything thus arranged, Childermass sat down again to wait. 

*   *   *

Childermass had never allowed himself to put his life on hold or to sit around idle, praying for some miracle to do away with his curse.  Nevertheless when Norrell had no immediate solution, it changed things.  As a boy he had sometimes allowed himself to dream that he should go into adulthood unhampered by the curse- but perhaps, he sometimes supposed, it was just as well that he had would not.  As a boy he had also become rather jaded.  He suspected that there were few people in all the world who, when they loved, were loved above all others.  If Childermass’ only burden was to know it absolutely, there were worse things.  How often, after all, would he care deeply enough for someone for it to matter?  Not often, he suspected as a young man newly in Norrell’s service- and the years that followed had proved him more or less right.

The pain he felt when he touched someone he loved who did not love him lived like a threatening shadow in the back of his mind, but it only touched him perhaps a handful of times.  In that respect he was grateful that his work for Norrell kept him so busy and took him all over the country, and that when he returned to Hurtfew Abbey it was to a world of relative isolation.  He hardly ever met anyone twice.  So he had acquaintances instead of friends and assignations instead of lovers.  People did him favors and he did favors for them; sometimes they warmed his bed.  Everyone knew he wouldn’t be staying.  The only falsehood he could be accused of was allowing these people to lay the blame of it at Norrell’s feet if they wished to.  It was not much of a lie, for Norrell hoarded more than just books.  If Childermass had ever wanted to leave his service to pursue marriage, he would have taken it very ill indeed. 

And so Childermass always returned to Hurtfew, and if he came to regard the servants Norrell employed with more affection than he had intended, it made little difference to him.  Working for a man like Norrell made a disinclination to touch and be touched seem a minor eccentricity.

It was one Childermass shared with Norrell, as it happened- which was not to say that in the process of shelving books or pouring tea they did not now and then brush against each other.  This came to result in a kind of minor discomfort, which Childermass kept from Norrell successfully until one afternoon, after Childermass had been in Norrell’s service some ten years, when a careless wince gave him away.  It was never established between them, whether the mildness of Childermass’ reaction to Norrell was because it varied naturally from person to person and his experience with loving people was simply not wide enough for him to detect it, or because he only loved Norrell a little and in the reluctant sort of way a man cannot help but love someone who becomes very nearly his whole world, or because Norrell loved him as much as he loved anyone living, and though Childermass would never be first in his heart it was sometimes a close thing. 

Perhaps they would have come to understand the ins and outs of the curse better if they had been able to work out which it was, but as whatever was between them remained largely unspoken they never did. 

Thus, Childermass only really had two memories of Norrell and touch. 

The first was that day, ten years into Norrell’s service, when their hands brushed and Childermass forgot himself and flinched.  Norrell froze and stared at him wide-eyed, and an expression of such awe came over his face that Childermass thought, for a wild moment, that if Norrell asked it of him he would try to tolerate the pain.  But of course it would only grow worse if they fed whatever affection it sprang from, so it was just as well that Norrell never asked.

The second came years later, when Childermass had been shot.  Norrell was not the kind to hold a man’s hand on his sickbed, nor would Childermass have ever been the kind to allow it, but Childermass noticed how carefully Norrell did not touch him, and he wondered- was Norrell afraid he might only hurt Childermass more if he did, or was he afraid that his touch would no longer hurt at all?

Were it not for the curse, Childermass did not think that he would mind not being first in anyone’s heart.  People had their families and friends, their callings, their _books_ \- and not being first in someone’s heart did not necessarily mean being last.  And even that Childermass did not think would be so very bad.  After all, he too had things to be getting on with. 

But there was the curse, and so it was all or nothing- and he had always known it would never be all. 

*   *   *

Mr. Segundus was ill for another day and a half.  Sometimes he woke and was almost lucid, and Childermass could get him to take a little broth, or clean him with a wet cloth, or help him take care of his needs- but for the most part he slept.  Childermass used a little magic to keep him cool, and consulted his cards a few times- they were more difficult to understand than usual, telling him only that something would soon come to an end, which Childermass chose to take as a good sign.  It was the fever that would soon come to an end.  Segundus would not- could not- die like this. 

Childermass did feel more helpless than he liked to, though, because for all the times he managed to make himself useful there were far more when all he could do was sit, and watch, and wait.

In his fever, Segundus continued to see things and people that were not there.  He saw strange magic done in front him, watched shrubs and creeping vines take on lives of their own, complained that the floor had turned to water and the ceiling to fire.  Fortunately, he caused none of this actually happen, although the furniture, including the chair Childermass sat in, did still occasionally rise up into the air.  He spoke to Mr. Honeyfoot, who was safely downstairs, and to his other apparitions- those living, those dead, and those who now dwelt in places beyond life and death.

Sometimes it seemed to Childermass that the one Segundus saw most frequently was Childermass himself, for though he spoke his name often he always addressed thin air.  Childermass was not sure if he was really so much in Segundus’ mind, or if his perceptions were skewed by his own involvement.

Nevertheless, Segundus did see him.  Childermass was, as previously mentioned, not an uncurious man.  From what Segundus said and did not say Childermass developed the impression that there was something Segundus was eager- even desperate- to keep from him, and of course he wondered what it was, but Segundus was a gentleman Childermass knew he had to thank for what little esteem the society of York magicians held him in, and one who Childermass wished he might be on better terms with than he was at the moment.  Thus Childermass did his best not to listen, not to wonder, not to do anything but lend his support where he could.     

In the evening on the third day Childermass was there, Mr. Segundus opened clear eyes for the first time and looked around the room.  “Childermass?” he said.  “Are you altogether... here?”

“Yes, sir,” Childermass said, rising and coming to sit at Segundus’ bedside.  “I am here.  You’ve been unwell.”

Segundus nodded, a little faintly but lucidly still.  “I feel a little better now.”

“Do you think you could eat something?  It is suppertime and you’ve had nothing but broth for days.”

“I think I could,” Segundus said.  “Is Mr. Honeyfoot close by?  I should like to see him.”

“As I am sure he would like to see you.  I will have him sent for.”

Segundus nodded.  “And I should like to clean myself up a bit.”

“Everything you should need is here, if you can manage on your own.”

Segundus flushed, evidently as least half remembering all the times over the last few days that he could _not_ manage on his own. 

Childermass bowed his head.  “Then I will be outside, should you have need of me.”

He took himself out into the hall and caught a servant girl, one of the loyal number who had remained throughout Segundus’ illness, and who had been bringing tea and soup for Segundus- and for Childermass himself- all that while.  “Would you summon Mr. Honeyfoot?”

“Yes, Mr. Childermass,” she said.  She made her way downstairs, leaving him alone to wait.

It felt to Childermass as if that strange, wet blanket had been lifted at last.  Any odd behaviors with regard to furniture or creeping vines appeared to have ceased in his vicinity, and Childermass was sure this would be the case throughout the hall.  

It was not long after that Mr. Segundus opened the door a crack and peered out at him.  “I neglected to thank you,” he said.  “I do not remember all of the last few days, but I do remember how much you did for me.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was not,” Segundus insisted.  “You did not have to stay so long.  You did not have to come at all.”

“Well.”  Childermass bowed his head.  “I am glad that you are better.  And since you are, I will take my leave.”

“No, you must dine here at least, after all this.”

The ride back to York was not a short one, and Childermass had to admit that he _was_ hungry.  “Very well,” he said.  “Thank you.”

Segundus gave him a small smile and vanished back into his room.  And presently Mr. Honeyfoot arrived, knocked, and was admitted.  Childermass considered his duty done and made his way to the kitchens. 

Segundus had hired a formidable woman to be his cook.  She was not one to be intimidated by a little magic gone awry, but she was pleased to learn that her employer was feeling better, and as Childermass already knew she always made enough for a guest or three. 

The meal was a pleasant one.  The cook sent up stew so Mr. Honeyfoot and Mr. Segundus could dine in Mr. Segundus’ room, and the rest of the staff gathered at the table in the kitchen to eat.  Being without a household for so long, Childermass had missed such things.  He liked these people, and it was almost enough to make him wonder if Mr. Segundus or Mr. Honeyfoot would take him on- but no.  He was no one’s man but the Raven King’s anymore, and that was how he preferred it.

Still, he enjoyed hearing all the local and household gossip.  He was even persuaded, once dinner was over, to light his pipe and take out his cards and tell a few maids their fortunes.  They were all good, and his cards behaved more straightforwardly than they had earlier, so it was a cheerful evening for everyone.  

When these servants dispersed to go about their nightly tasks, Childermass went back upstairs to take his leave of Mr. Segundus if he was still awake and Mr. Honeyfoot if he was not, and to tell either gentleman that he was at their disposal should they need his help again. 

He overheard both men’s voices through the door before he had a chance to knock. 

“But it is very vexing,” Segundus was saying.  His voice was not quite back to its usual self, but it was getting stronger. 

“You could well have died without his assistance,” Mr. Honeyfoot replied.

“I did not say I was ungrateful.  I merely said it was vexing.”

Childermass’ hand had frozen in the process of knocking, and he made himself bring it down at last.

“Yes?” Segundus called.

Childermass opened the door and walked through it, though he did not get too close.  Mr. Segundus and Mr. Honeyfoot’s dinners had already been taken away, and they were sitting beside the fire together.

Mr. Segundus blinked at Childermass in much the same way he had in his fever.  “I thought that you had gone.”

“No, sir,” Childermass replied.  “You asked me to stay.”

“Then where the devil have you been?”

“In the kitchen,” Childermass answered slowly, unsure exactly where the confusion lay.  “With the other servants.”

“The other-” Segundus cut himself off sharply.

Childermass decided that Segundus was not yet as well as he seemed, but since he was clearly well enough to be cross with Childermass again it was best that Childermass go, now.  He bowed his head.  “I am glad to see you recovered.  I shall be in York for some time yet, should you have need of me.  I bid you farewell.”

He got only a few steps from the door before he heard the scraping of a chair upon the floor, and then footsteps, and then-

“Mr. Childermass, I am very sorry if I have given offense.”

Childermass felt himself frowning.  He knew it to be a forbidding expression, and it was one he had hoped to avoid.  “You have not, sir.”

Segundus’ own expression contorted in a manner which Childermass- when he met Segundus' gaze- thought looked decidedly painful.  “You did me a great service.”

“And you have already thanked me for it.”

Childermass appeared to have vexed Segundus again.  “Nevertheless, I know that I have never been very hospitable to you-”

“You have had cause.”

“Will you not let me finish?” Childermass could see that though Segundus did not yet have his fire back, he was not far off.  He nodded, and Segundus set his jaw and continued: “There is bad blood between us- for better reasons, in some cases, than others.  But I am grateful for what you did for me, and I am sorry if my attempts to thank you have come at all amiss.”

Childermass nodded again, and Segundus deflated just a little.

“Good,” he said.  “So.  I would like to ask you if- if while you are in York you might like to... visit from time to time?  Mr. Honeyfoot is good company, of course, but I should still like us to be better friends than we are, you and I.”

“I should like that too."

Segundus smiled, somewhat tremulously.  “Good,” he said again.  “And do you think perhaps... the next time I asked you to stay and dine... you might... dine with me?”

Childermass tried not to stare.  “Yes,” he said finally.  “I think perhaps I could.”  

Segundus’ smile steadied, though he still looked as if he might collapse at any moment.  Wisely, he said, “Then I believe I should go back to bed,” so Childermass did not have to.  

“Might I assist you?” Childermass asked.

Segundus colored faintly.  “I believe I can manage.  Thank you again.  Good evening.”

Childermass inclined his head.  “Good evening.”

*   *   *

Childermass knew how some people- Lascelles in particular but never Lascelles alone- had seen him.  To a certain extent, they were right; Childermass was resentful of his station.  It wasn’t that he had ever, even as a young man, wanted to be a gentleman- but to never have to seek the respect, influence, or funds that such men considered their due... who wouldn’t want that?  Not the son of a whore who picked pockets and told fortunes for his bread.  Not the man who became servant to a magician out of necessity rather than deference.

Childermass knew that he could be impatient, sullen, and difficult.  He knew that in almost any respect he was no prize.  And though Lascelles had often accused Norrell of giving him too much leeway- and though he may indeed have been right- Childermass knew his place.

That didn’t mean it didn’t turn him around somewhat, being asked to dine with Mr. Segundus.  Perhaps it would not have, were Segundus not so handsome and kind- but he was and it did.

There was nothing to done about it, however.  Childermass was a fellow magician and a reasonably good conversationalist.  That was the only reason for his interest.  Thinking anything else would be a dangerous mistake.    

 *   *   *

It was one Childermass’ heart insisted on making, however. 

Segundus was not at all helpful in that regard.  Childermass visited Starecross Hall several times over the next few weeks, and on those visits they ate together, pored over notes together, and had together the kind of magical debates that Childermass had overheard between Norrell and Strange but never believed he might one day participate in.  When the weather turned worse Childermass began to stay the night, and it wasn’t long before there was both a chair by the fire and a bed upstairs which he had come to think of as his own. 

One thing that troubled him was the thought that the servants at Starecross might resent him for this change in circumstances- but they did not seem to.  They appeared to have all agreed that Segundus was an odd sort of gentleman, and they treated Childermass the same as they ever did. 

And so, he was content.  Though he might not have ventured to say so, or even admit it in his own mind, Childermass was as happy as he could recall being.

He should have known that something would happen to change things- to change everything.

It was late one evening, and a storm raged outside.  They had already decided, with little fanfare, that Childermass would remain at Starecross until the skies cleared and the muddy roads were passable again, and so they were spending the evening discussing a minor point of magical theory.

They had taken a short break in the discussion to enjoy cheese and bread toasted over the fire, and Childermass was planning his next volley when Segundus glanced over at him and smiled.  Childermass wasn’t sure that anyone had ever looked at him quite like Segundus was looking at him just then.  Childermass had to admit that the particular way the golden firelight fell across Segundus’ face was almost alarmingly beautiful- but he doubted that Segundus was thinking anything of the kind when he looked at Childermass, for Childermass could lay claim to neither great beauty nor softness of feature, and of course the likelihood of Segundus having any particular appreciation for the male form was surely very slim indeed. 

And yet Segundus’ gaze flickered over his face with the same speed and heat as the firelight, until it finally shuddered to a stop at his lips.  Assuming for the sake of argument that he _did_ have some particular appreciation for the male form, it put him- Segundus, that was- in a tricky position.  Showing his interest in Childermass, and discovering if he shared it without causing offense, damaging their growing friendship, or getting himself into difficulties was a rather thorny proposition.  That look was quite possibly the most unambiguous he could risk being- and, indeed, had he shared supper with a stranger in an inn and been given that look Childermass would never have doubted it.  It was only because Segundus was Segundus that he doubted at all. 

It would explain certain things that had been said, back when Segundus was ill, if this was how he had felt or been beginning to feel.  Childermass could not easily put that aside.  But it left him in a bad position too.  To become involved with Mr. Segundus would not be at all wise for a man in his circumstances, and yet- as previously mentioned- he was not an uncurious man.  If indeed Segundus did want him, he wanted to _know_ it, even if that would be foolish when his interest was… just possibly... returned. 

That was the crux of it, after all.  Childermass found Segundus attractive, and felt a friendly affection for him.  And it left a bitter taste in his mouth, to hope that there was nothing more to it than that.  And when he thought about sacrificing this friendship, newly discovered, for the sake of an experiment, he felt cold.  Far too cold to tell himself that he would not also feel considerable pain when Segundus touched his skin at last. 

And when he did, he might flinch away- and Segundus would not know why.  He could not know why; he would only pity Childermass if he did.  With Hurtfew gone Childermass was unlikely to find any magical cure for his curse.  To ask Segundus’ assistance in such a fruitless search would always have been embarrassing; it would be doubly so now.

He could not let this continue, and yet-

And yet... something in his lack of response must have seemed to Segundus promising, because he got a little closer.  He lifted a hand, and the brush of his fingertips up Childermass’ sleeve had an ache to it that had nothing to do with his curse.

Caught in the loop of these thoughts, Childermass was more than cold, he was... frozen.  Unable to make himself draw away when the tempting curve of Segundus’ lip was tempting still.

Too late, he thought wildly.  It’s too late.

And then it truly was.      

Segundus’ hand lifted from Childermass’ sleeve to his cheek, and if there was time to register if it caused him pain or not Childermass nevertheless failed to do so.  And then Segundus’ lips were on his, featherlight, a question to which the answer was immediately, horribly clear.

Childermass jerked back as if he had been slapped, for it felt as though he had.  It felt more intense than any other pain he had experienced at someone’s touch before, and vastly different as well.

Segundus backed off immediately.  He shook his head as if to clear it.  “Forgive me,” he said, still clearly off balance.  “I thought-” He stopped, as if he was aware that there was nothing further he could say without appearing foolish.

Childermass felt for him in that sense, for he was the one who had been foolish.  “It is my fault.  I let you-”

Segundus’ look of shock hardened slightly, reminding Childermass of how he had so often looked at him before, when they were at odds all the time.  “Why did you let me?”

“I was curious,” Childermass admitted.

From the way Segundus’ face hardened further, he did not understand.              

It was just as well, since Childermass had no wish to make him understand.  “It was a mistake.”

Segundus turned away from him very suddenly, and immediately Childermass felt... he didn’t know exactly what he felt.  A sting of regret at every choice that led to this moment, he supposed.  But perhaps it was for the best.  Perhaps he had been getting too close, and this was the sign he needed to keep his distance again.

But... he would miss their talks. 

“I should go,” he said, rising.  It was late, and snowing lightly, but he had traveled under worse conditions in his time.

Segundus laughed softly.  This false mirth in him was almost worse than the anger.  “I shan’t turn you out.”

“Perhaps it would be better if you did.”

“Are you trying to aggravate me?” Segundus asked, frowning again at least.

“No,” Childermass said immediately.  “And… yes.  I don’t know.”

“Surely there are easier ways to do it then-”  Segundus cut himself off sharply, then said, "You allowed me to think that you might like-” Segundus cut himself off again, but the way his face reddened and his eyes darted again to Childermass’ lips finished for him quite admirably.

“Did I?” Childermass asked- in fact he had not imagined, before now, that it was possible. 

Segundus seemed to lose all his energy very abruptly.  “No,” he said.  “No, that was unfair of me, Mr. Childermass.  I am sorry.”  He bent his head.  “I was so sure that you did not, you see,” Segundus went on, so quietly it almost seemed to be more for his own benefit than Childermass’.  “But you were so-” he sucked in a breath, “so good when I was ill.  And after- when we became friends-” his eyes flashed up again, catching and holding Childermass’ gaze with such intensity that it was like being touched again.  “I cannot tell you how much I would hate to lose that.  Your friendship.”

"Then you must not,” Childermass heard himself say.

Segundus’ eyes were wide.  “So we may talk no more about it?”

 _As you wish_ sprang to Childermass’ tongue but caught in his teeth.  This was what he wanted, after all- Segundus would press no suit he had reason to believe was unwanted, and he would ask no questions he understood Childermass did not wish to answer.  He might so easily go upstairs and- as Segundus asked- talk no more about it.

But the self-recrimination, the self-doubt, in Segundus’ eyes were so strong.  It was clear to Childermass that when Segundus was ill this was a large part of what had so distressed him- and if Childermass left him alone at this time it would only distress him anew- and suddenly that mattered more to him than his pride.  And Childermass was a proud man, so that was saying something.

All Segundus had done wrong was want something Childermass himself did- he simply did not want it enough. 

“We may in a moment,” Childermass said at last, “if that is still what you want.  But first I would try to explain myself.  I let you kiss me, I did.  Because I did want you to.”  He felt himself reach out to Segundus, an instinct he thought he had learned by then to keep well in check.  He drew back before he connected with that supremely smooth cheek.

Though this seemed to alarm Segundus a little, he still began to smile.  His eyes still lit up.  “You did?”

“Yes.”  Childermass couldn’t help drinking in that look, that hope.  He couldn’t help tucking it away in some dark corner of his mind for a cold night in the distant future.  It was something- maybe not everything, but something.  Something he would have to dash.  “But I pulled away because… because it is impossible.”

Segundus looked a trifle hurt then, but the other feelings- the hope- had not entirely faded.  “Impossible seems a strong word, for men such as you and I.”

Childermass could not help smiling a little at that.

“I know you like to keep Vinculus moving, and I should not- I should not try to stop you.  But when you did come here, you might... come to me.  I do not think anyone would suspect anything, or-”

“You have thought of this.” 

“Yes.” Segundus did not seem, now, ashamed to admit it.  “I think of it all the time.”

“You should not,” Childermass said.

"I will do as seems right to me,” Segundus said, a flash of protective fury in his eyes.  Childermass had always found that unreasonably charming; doubly so now that he was, in a way, thinking to protect Childermass himself.

“I know you will.”  For the first time since he allowed himself to speak, since he embarked on this explanation, Childermass fully admitted in his own mind that he would have to tell Segundus all.  He hardly knew where to begin, except that Segundus had already given him a place to start.  “But first you must know all the facts.”

Segundus swallowed, but he nodded- a fierceness still in his eyes that suggested he did not intend to let anything sway him, or to let Childermass go now that he knew he did not truly wish to be let go.

Childermass almost wanted that look to remain.  “Do you remember much from your fever?” he asked gently. 

“Not much,” Segundus said.  “If I accused you of anything, or made you feel-”

“No.  No, I understand your anxiety.  I forgave you then- and I more than forgive you now.”

Segundus nodded.

“It was something else you said to me, something I mostly put from my mind.  You said I had a cloud about me.  Do you remember that?”

“No.”

“Are you aware of it now?  This... cloud?” Childermass knew that Segundus had always been able to see things that others could not, things Childermass himself could only broadly sense, but his understanding of how it was done was vague at best. 

Segundus frowned thoughtfully.  He looked at Childermass for a long time.  “I am not,” he admitted at last.  “I... had greater powers then than I do now, did I not?” 

Childermass remembered all that levitating furniture and almost laughed.  He did huff out a breath.  “Yes.”

“Perhaps I saw things clearly even as the fever clouded my mind.”

“So you did not see it at any other time?”

“That is... not quite true.”  Segundus laughed softly.  “I saw something- I never knew what- when I was close to you.  When I brushed up against you.  It was one of the reasons I wanted to... touch you more, touch your skin.  Though not-” he flushed- “the only reason.”  

Childermass had learned after the fact that Segundus could always see that fairy’s roses on Lady Pole and Stephen Black, but he saw them most clearly when they tried to speak of their predicament.  It made sense that he could see Childermass’ curse best when it, too, was most... active.  “Did you see it when you kissed me?”

“I was... otherwise occupied.”  Another laugh, and a deeper flush.

“Of course,” Childermass said, a mild flush of his own tugging at his cheeks. 

"You know what it is, don’t you?” Segundus’ native state of academic curiosity had evidently battled his embarrassment and beaten it cold, for his eyes were alight with interest now and his flush was as much excitement as anything else.

“I do.  It is mine.”  Childermass found it no easier to explain this dismal fact of his existence to Segundus now for having done so once to Gilbert Norrell.  They were such different men, and the knowledge would mean such different things to them.  But it had to be done, Childermass knew it, and as with most things that made it, if not easy, certainly less difficult.  “I am... shall we say... afflicted by magic.  I am cursed.”

*   *   *

When Childermass first told the story, to Norrell, he told himself that he would never have to do it again- but something inside him had nagged that it wouldn’t be so, and his cards had agreed.  It was one time he ignored them, and he learned to regret it.  Learned that faith in Norrell, while not entirely in vain, was never as simple as he might wish it to be. 

But this second time he told the story, to Segundus, Childermass really did believe that it was also the last time.  He would hope that there was a good reason for it- but he had given up hopes like that a long time ago. 

*   *   *

It was late when Childermass finished with his tale.  

Segundus asked much the same questions that Norrell had- _how long has it been this way, what does it feel like, are you sure you don’t know why_ \- though he was a good deal more delicate, since to Norrell at that time Childermass had been little more than an intellectual problem given physical form.  He was also more likely to ask questions about Childermass’ own perceptions, not just what he knew of his condition or how it felt when aggravated, but also his opinions as a magician.  That soothed Childermass’ injured pride- enough, at least, to make the business a little less torturous than it might otherwise have been.

Childermass was exhausted by then, and Segundus proposed he take himself to bed.   

“What about you?” he asked.  Segundus was rattling papers and running fingers through his hair in a distracted fashion Childermass knew well.  He did not believe Segundus when he promised to do the same presently, but he did not say so.  Perhaps they both needed time to lick their wounds.

Childermass went up to bed.  He spent much of the remaining night staring up at the ceiling.  He felt he was in uncharted territory and he didn’t care for it.  It had taken so little time and contact for him to feel that he would lose something substantial if he lost Mr. Segundus’ regard. And he was terribly afraid that he had- but there could be no going back.

At last, he slept. 

When he woke again in the morning, he did not know what to expect downstairs, but what he found- Segundus, his hair wild, bent over papers just as Childermass had left him- was not a particular shock.  “Let me fetch you some tea and something to eat, sir,” he said, falling back on familiar forms in the hopes of avoiding, or at least forestalling, the awkwardness now between them.  “You really must take better care of yourself.”

It was a sign of Segundus’ distraction, one that- if asked- Childermass would confess he found more warming than galling, that he did not correct the _sir_.  Indeed, he only spoke at all when Childermass turned to make his to the kitchen.  ‘Wait,” he called out.  

Childermass did as he asked, turning about again and wedging his shoulder in the doorway and folding his arms across his chest.

“I have been... thinking about this,” Segundus said.  “About you.”

Childermass looked at the notes and spells that surrounded him like snowbanks.  “I did imagine as much.”

“I do not see any cloud about you now.”

Childermass hesitated.  “Perhaps... you must get closer.”

“Would you object to that?”

He had wondered, often idly and once more seriously, that time with Norrell, what he would do if he ever found someone, and loved them enough to try to tolerate the pain.  His chance to do so now had been lost, surely, when he told Segundus the truth- for Segundus would never wish his touch to be something Childermass merely tolerated.  But he thought now that he would have, if it came to that.  He thought he would do so still, for as long as Segundus had an eye to experiment.  “No,” he said.  He might grow to resent it, he knew- being again only a curiosity- but for now he did not mind. 

Segundus nodded, a little jerkily, and rose.

He crossed to Childermass ever so steadily and lifted a hand, resting it squarely on Childermass’ chest.  “It must be skin to skin, though, must it not?”  He swallowed as he spoke. 

Childermass nodded.  He let his arms drop and straightened up.

Segundus’ hand traveled up Childermass’ chest, along the line of his lapels, the collar of his shirt, and then the tie at his throat.  Childermass was so intensely aware of his heat, of his touch, that he flinched the moment Segundus’ fingers brushed against the skin of his neck.  Segundus, his expression kind and full of every emotion but pity, merely waited for Childermass to relax.  When he did, Childermass noticed that Segundus’ fingers were cold.  And for all else his touch signified, Childermass chiefly thought that he ought to go closer to the fire and warm himself.   

And then he thought that Segundus’ fingers, trailing up his throat to his jaw, felt just as good as any of the near strangers he had allowed to touch him so in the past- and better, for a near stranger could never have made him tremble like this.

“I did tell you I could not see it any longer,” Segundus said softly.

“I don’t understand,” Childermass said.  “I still-” _Love you.  I still think from the light in your eyes that you love me too._   He could not say those things, nor did he need to, for the kind-but-not-pitying look still on Segundus’ face seemed to understand all.  Instead he said, “How?”

He did not add how much he knew Segundus loved his friends, his school, magic itself.  Surely Segundus would understand without such protests, protests that would certainly make him sound unbearably foolish.  Sure enough, Segundus’ expression gentled even further.  “I daresay when I am fixed on an idea of magic I can be as single-minded on the subject as Norrell or Strange or anyone.  Just as I know you can be, with your Raven King.  But I have... I have wanted you for such a very long time.  And I have been learning to love you this while. I have been learning to want you here as often as you can be, and when I kissed you what I hoped for, before anything else, was for you to feel the same.  I don’t expect there was anything else in my mind at all.”  His hands slid up to cup Childermass’ face and remained there, his thumb passing across Childermass’ mouth. “There still isn’t.  I... love a great many things and people, but if I were to say that I love you best- and I do love you best- it would be because we fit, you and I.  Because I have many questions yet to answer, many worlds yet to explore, and you are the one I want to do my answering and exploring with.  My life- my heart- is fuller with you in it.  Loving you does not exclude all else.  It expands it.  Do you see?” 

“No,” Childermass said, but he was laughing as he said it, because he did understand in every way that really mattered.

Segundus smiled too.  “I suspect the curse itself is broken.  Perhaps it needed only for its terms to be met.”  He frowned, evidently disliking the explanation.  “Or perhaps it had to be a magician.  Ending an enchantment with a kiss worked for Jonathan Strange, after all.”

“You are not Jonathan Strange,” Childermass pointed out, still struggling to articulate himself.

Segundus’ smile only grew wider.  “No, I am not.”

“It does not matter anyway,” Childermass said at last.  “I do not immediately have to know if it is truly gone.”  He did believe that it was; he thought now that the pain he felt in the moment might indeed have been the curse breaking, clawing him on its way out.  He thought now that he could feel it gone in the same way he had always felt it there.  But confirmation could certainly wait.    

Segundus, though, looked utterly baffled.  “Why?”  He could not bear not to know certain things, Childermass knew- and when he thought that Childermass also thought he understood Segundus’ point better than he had before.  What he felt for Segundus was a thing that opened doors, not a thing that closed them. 

“Because I don’t presently want anyone else to touch me.”  This was an exaggeration- to shake hands or clasp arms without fear would be a quiet but keen pleasure- but not much of one. 

Segundus let out a whoosh of breath and was smiling again. 

“I... was thinking of too many other things when you kissed me the first time,” Childermass told him.  “I should like to change that the second.  If I may?”

“You may,” Segundus whispered. 

Childermass pressed nearer and brought their lips together, feeling Segundus’ mouth soften under his and Segundus’ fingers work back into his hair.  Segundus’ lips tasted a little stale after his night spent bent over his notes, but Childermass found he did not mind in the least about that.  He minded even less when he thought that he would be the one to make sure Segundus was in bed- if not sleeping- at a reasonable hour that night.

“Better?” Segundus asked after a while.

“A little.”

“Only a little?” Segundus’ eyes were lit with humor, as if he was aware of being teased- which was good, because Childermass was out of practice with good-natured teasing- if indeed he had ever been in practice to begin with. 

“I confess that I let my mind wander a little.  I was thinking of how much I wanted to stay the night.”

“You may stay for as long as you like.”

“I know.”

“Then would you like to try again?” As he said it, Segundus’ eyes shone brighter than the morning light that fell across his face through the window. 

“Very much,” Childermass replied.  And he did. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come see me on [tumblr](http://potentiality-26.tumblr.com).


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